Lent, Week 7: into your hands

By this time it was about noon, and darkness fell across the whole land until three o'clock.  The light from the sun was gone.  And suddenly, the curtain in the sanctuary of the Temple was torn down the middle.

Then Jesus shouted,

"Father, I entrust my spirit into your hands!"

And with those words he breathed his last.

When the Roman officer overseeing the execution saw what had happened, he worshiped God and said, "Surely this man was innocent."  And when all the crowd that came to see the crucifixion saw what had happened, they went home in deep sorrow.  But Jesus's friends, including the women who had followed him from Galilee, stood at a distance watching.

Luke 23:44-49, NLT

This is an interesting passage, because there's so much action around and away from Jesus.

  • There's three hours of darkness over the whole land, from noon until three.
  • The sanctuary curtain in the Temple is torn in two.
  • The Roman soldier has his epiphany.
  • The whole crowd goes home in deep sorrow.
  • Jesus' friends, including the women, watch and wait from a distance.

And in the center of it all, Jesus isn't talking to the criminals crucified with him or his mother and the disciple at the foot of the cross.  He's not crying out in torment of spirit or body.

He's shouting to his Father:  I trust you.

In this terrible day, in this hour of agony, Jesus cries with a loud voice:  I put my whole self into your hands.  I trust you.  

Trust the Love.

I say that all the time.

I think I'm believing it.  I think I'm doing it.

But I know me, when I get into tough places.  

It's as if the trust I had before, in other tough places, is embryonic, infantile, fragile as cobwebs, an echo down a dark and empty hallway.

I know I had trust before.  I know I did.

But now.  In this moment, for this thing that terrorizes me today.

How do I trust the Love for this moment?

When I've never, ever done it before.

"Wanderer, your footsteps are the road, and nothing more; wanderer, there is no road, the road is made by walking.  By walking one makes the road, and upon glancing behind one sees the path that never will be trod again.  Wanderer, there is no road--only wakes upon the sea."  Antonio Machado (translated from Spanish)

Father, into your hands.

All the pain, all the sorrow, all the confusion and loss.

We lay it down here, in your hands.

We trust you to make the road where there never was a road before.

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